“Good morning, Miz Adeline. Good to see you, Rick. Y’all come on in. Woo-wee. Didn’t we kick some serious Yankee ass down in the Gator Bowl?” Dave Rickles pumped my hand like I was a long-lost college drinking buddy, not a client’s representative he’d only met once. Seemed to prove once again that the way to a man’s heart was through his cock, particularly if it was a Gamecock.

“Only been a month, and I can’t even remember who we whupped. Illinois, maybe? The Fighting Illini? What on God’s green earth is an Illini, anyway? I get right down on my knees every night and thank The Man Upstairs I wasn’t born a Yankee.”

Good to see Ol’ Dave was his same old irrepressible self. I mean, if you can’t count on xenophobia, what can you count on?